


Whirlwind

by robaca (goodlamb)



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Drunken Confessions, Gen, M/M, Platonic Female/Male Relationships, Post-Canon, Post-Inception, Post-Movie(s), Reminiscing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-20
Updated: 2015-06-20
Packaged: 2018-04-05 08:15:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,239
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4172517
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/goodlamb/pseuds/robaca
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Arthur rambles drunkenly about Mal. Eames is enthralled.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Whirlwind

**Author's Note:**

> I have been caught up in the Tom Hardy renaissance, and therefore the Inception renaissance. It is 2011 again. Also I myself would be enraptured by Marion Cotillard in any form, and like to daydream about Arthur and Mal having an intense platonic relationship pre-canon *heart eyes emoji*

They had gotten to the portion of the evening by which Arthur had gotten drunk enough to wax poetic about Mal and, quote, “the good old days.” This occasion only came around when the moon was blue, the winds were all blowing northwest, and the leprechauns were planting the last hairs from their chinny chin chins to turn into four leaf clovers.

...and so on and so forth. (Eames might have also gotten a bit drunk while getting Arthur to that state.)

The point was, it was a cause for celebration. Not like he specifically wanted to see their point man get all nostalgic and turned about and moony eyed, but Eames considered it an achievement any time he got the man the least bit ruffled.

Arthur was currently slouching ( _slouching!_ ), stretched out nimbly on the black leather chaise that came in their suitably lush hotel room. Perhaps to the naked eye, or an eye that belonged to someone who didn’t know Arthur near as well as he did, the man didn’t look all that disheveled. But Eames, sitting backwards around a desk chair just next to him, could spot the signs. Arthur’s jacket was off and folded, nice and prim, over an armchair; his tie was just ever so loosened; he may have even had a shirt button unbuttoned. The man was practically in tatters-- and ready to blow.

“Do you know why we were so great back then?” he asked, dark eyes looking over at Eames plaintively. Eames reached over with the hotel-provided crystal tumbler of scotch (he absolutely loved this room) and refilled Arthur’s glass.

“I don’t, pet, but I’m sure you’ll tell me.”

He would have offered to fill Ariadne’s cup as well, but the lightweight was already down for the count; he last saw her tumbling into the jet tub for a nap. And Yusuf was off in a corner somewhere-- the man was far from a lightweight, but he had brought out some of his own breed of kush that no one had taken him up on. It was surely potent, as Eames was pretty sure he saw their dear chemist nodding understandingly at a floor lamp an hour ago.

They were celebrating: a job well done, and no one had gotten shot that wasn’t supposed to.

It was strange, working with the same team for so many cases. In the past Eames would have been itching to get out, to go through his regular cycle of quitting the game entirely and retiring to somewhere like Mombasa. Living in peace and quiet, at least until the casino circuit caught wind of him, or he got an alias burned, or he managed to burn something three-dimensional. By then he’d inevitably crawl his way back into dreamspace.

Trouble was, Eames wasn’t feeling that familiar itch. If he was being truthful, he was getting quite comfortable. Which could be dangerous in his line of work.

And seeing as his line of work involved reading people, he might be pressed to say that dear Arthur was getting comfortable too.

But he also knew that their little team of champion vagabonds weren’t the “we” Arthur was talking about.

“Those couple years,” Arthur said, tipping his head back, a lock of hair breaking free from his pomade. “We were making magic, Eames.”

He murmured in agreement. Arthur and the Cobbs. Dominick, Mallorie, and their fresh little point man that had come out of nowhere. In dreamshare, everybody knew everybody, and everybody knew everybody’s business-- for a few years there, the dream team (no pun intended) was all anyone could talk about. Mrs. Cobb herself was practically royalty in the business, and with Dom the two had already made a formidable name for themselves.

Then along came Arthur. Word got around that the Cobbs wouldn’t do a job with anyone else on point, and Arthur worked almost exclusively for them. The three of them were inseparable, and made a sparkling impression on anyone working on their team. Gossip followed quickly-- were they fucking? Was he a long lost son? (the latter coming from people that were largely underestimating Arthur’s age, and overestimating Mal’s; very stupid people, altogether). If they _were_ fucking, who was fucking whom? Arthur cut an almost subservient figure, next to Dom’s gorilla of a personality and Mal’s demure but dazzling air.

They were goddamn captivating. Before it all blew up.

“I’d never felt anything like it, the way we worked. That buzz you get when you’re really making something, _producing_. Like that rush Ari talks about-- the pure creation, the drive of it. We ran so smooth,” Arthur said, sighing, and taking a drink.

“That you did,” Eames replied.

“And people think it was because of Dom, Dom and his big ideas. That was part of it; even back then, he ran like a freight train--” Eames winced, thinking of what Ariadne had told them of the Cobbs’ purgatory. Arthur continued, “--always pushing the mechanics of it farther, seeing where the mind could take us.”

Arthur blinked, and took another sip of his drink. “And I, of course, brought my own specialities.”

“That might be the most humble thing I’ve ever heard out of you, darling.”

Arthur rolled his eyes over at him, biting. But then his features melted just a bit, his head tipping back again on the lounge. “It was Mal, Eames, it was all Mal.

“Not just her ideas-- she invented half of the tools we use in there, you know-- but her. She was a whirlwind of a woman, she, she, had this way about _her_ , of inspiring people. Any team she worked on, it didn’t matter if we were there or not; she whipped them up into something amazing, into more than their parts. Dom could push the brain, but she’d push the people,” Arthur said, breathily. Eames was caught on every word.

“She made people go beyond any notion of personal limits they had ever set; she made them want to do better, to do more, either for her, or for themselves.” Arthur shook his head. “Maybe just to feel that drive. She’d get people to break themselves for whatever the work required, and then they’d thank her for it.” Arthur exhaled, looking around the room.

“I think she was one in a million, Eames,” the man said, looking solemnly into his drink. “Maybe one in...seven billion. We’ll never see another one like her.”

Eames stared at him. He thought of the way Ariadne was flourishing under Arthur’s careful guidance, the way this strange team was sticking together against the odds. He thought of the way he trusted Arthur when the man put him under, in a way he didn’t trust very many people anymore. He thought about the reasons he hadn’t run for the hills at the end of a job yet.

Eames leaned back in his chair, sipping at his own scotch. “You might have a touch of that in you, mate,” he said casually.  

Arthur blinked, perhaps a second of surprise crossing his features before they smoothed out. He looked over at Eames and smiled dryly, a little rueful, in a way that brought out those godforsaken dimples that made him look all of 12 years old.

“If I do,” he said, “I got it from watching Mal.”

Eames clinked his glass against Arthur’s. They soon passed out, to the sound of Ari’s snores from the bathroom.


End file.
